


50 Words For Snow

by WetSammyWinchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Pre-Series Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam is 16, only one bed (or in this case sleeping bag)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21684718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: A black dog hunt goes wrong. An early snowstorm hits. Dean is hurt and Sam has to figure it out.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 30
Kudos: 133
Collections: 2019 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange





	50 Words For Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verucasalt123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/gifts).



> Written for [2019 SPN J2 Xmas Exchange](https://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/) for verucasalt123 and their prompt of “Sam takes care of Dean (illness or injury)”. I also tried to mix in some of their likes: weecest, aftermath of a hunt, tending to injuries, and first time (sort of). It's wintertime so hello, hypothermia! Hope you like it! 
> 
> Thanks to nigeltde and quickreaver for looking this over and giving such great comments as always <3

※ ※ ※

Dean won’t stop shivering.

They stagger for hours through the snowfall. There isn’t much on the ground yet, a couple of inches to drag their boots through, but the wind is sharp. The snow isn’t falling as much as coming straight at them like icy arrows and Sam has to shake his head every few steps to see. 

He adjusts his grip on Dean’s arm where it’s slung over his shoulder and wraps his other hand around Dean’s back, fisting his jacket to pull him in more securely. A blast of icy wind almost knocks them over and they stumble before starting forward again. 

Sam’s growth spurt last summer made them equally tall but Dean is still heavier, more solid, and for the first time that Sam can remember, Dean is a dead weight in his arms. He was hoping they could make it back to the Impala at the trailhead but the blizzard is blinding and his fingers and face are numb and he’s pretty sure that they took a wrong turn back by those rocks. 

It doesn’t matter now, he thinks, looking at Dean’s pale skin and blue lips. What matters is finding shelter and warming his brother up.

He starts forward again, leaning into the wind, looking for a break in the treeline. The wind might be worse out in the open but they’ll have better luck in finding one of the ranger cabins that dot this ridge. Ahead, the trees open up and Sam sees a small dark structure in the hollow below.

“We’re almost there,” he says, half to Dean and half to himself. When Dean doesn’t respond, Sam shakes him. “Dean, you gotta help me. Just a quarter-mile downhill, okay?” Dean stirs and Sam feels a rush of gratitude when those green eyes look up at him at last.

“Dad’s gonna be so pissed,” Dean says.

“No, he’s not. You killed it, Dean. You got it.”

“Dad’s gonna know, Sam, he's gonna see,” Dean slurs. He starts to nod off and then jerks awake wild-eyed. 

“Know what?” Sam says but there’s another gust of wind and ice. Instead of huddling into Sam, Dean pushes away. He staggers a few steps and then opens his jacket and paws at the wadded bandage on his chest that used to be Sam’s flannel shirt. 

“No, stop. Leave it alone. Dean—” Sam tries to wrestle his hands away but Dean shoves him back again. He yanks the bloody bandage down, exposing three claw marks across his t-shirt, and looks down in confusion at the blood and ragged skin underneath. Dean struggles with Sam for another moment as more of his body heat escapes into the cold wind, but then his frantic burst of energy is over and he slumps into Sam’s arms. 

Sam can’t remember the last time he cried, maybe when he was eight and Dad didn’t make it home for Christmas, but he feels like it now. He sniffs in frustration as he tucks the bloody mess of a flannel shirt back into Dean’s jacket and buttons it up against the cold. 

Dean has stopped shivering. Sam holds him even closer. They don’t have much time.

※ ※ ※

Black dogs are supposed to be a portent of death. Turns out they have real teeth. 

The hunt had kept them off the grid for two days. They were so close to catching the beast at Trail Ridge—a glimpse of it through the trees and Dean wanted to push on, even as the clouds gathered overhead. Early October can be iffy in Colorado, sunny and warm one day and a blizzard the next. A knot of worry had formed in Sam’s stomach as the first flakes fell but Dean was sure it would melt quickly. 

Snow they could handle but a twenty-degree drop in temperature was another thing. The two trudged on, protected by nothing more than their leather work boots and jackets.

Within an hour, they found the black dog. In an entrance to a shallow cave, with nowhere left to run, Dean cornered it and buried his silver blade to the hilt in its shaggy chest. When he called Sam over to see the body, the monster clambered back up on its giant paws and made a dying lunge at them. It scraped its claws across Dean’s chest before he could get the knife out of the sheath and cut its throat. With a final howl, its red eyes and black fur dissolved into dark wisps, carried away on the wind as if it never existed.

Dean looked down at his shredded shirt and the red blood that stained the front. “That can’t be good.”

He refused to let Sam treat the wounds and wrapped his leather jacket tightly around his torso. They agreed that the faster they got out of the forest the better, but half an hour later, Dean stumbled and fell to the ground. His jacket fell open, and his shirt was covered with blood. Sam stripped off his overshirt, wadding it up and tying the sleeves around Dean’s chest. He threw the weapons bag that Dean dropped over one arm and then lifted Dean up and walk-assisted him through the snow with his other arm, just like Dad had drilled them.

Sam squinted his eyes against the wind to find the trail they took into the woods but the snowfall made it impossible to see their tracks. Dean’s blood loss wasn’t a good thing, but he would be fine once they got back to the car. They had time. It couldn’t be more than a few hours.

※ ※ ※

The ranger cabin is small. Single-room log structures with no water, phone, or electricity, these cabins were meant as waylay stations for rangers who patrolled the trails up here. Inside, it smells of smoke and pine sap like some cheap scented candle, but Sam has never been more grateful to be inside four walls before.

He lays Dean carefully in the middle of the floor, throwing their bag to the side. The wood-burning stove at one end of the room is rusty but in working order, with a pile of moldy wood in a bin. A few minutes later, he has a fire going and he can breathe again. He sits back on his heels and swallows down a flash of anger that their dad isn’t here. 

Dean is cold to the touch. His face is pale from blood loss and the freezing temperatures, and Sam can see the blue veins on his eyelids as he cradles Dean’s face between his palms. He syncs up their breathing as if he could will more oxygen and heat into his brother through the touch of his hands. The small space around them starts to heat up from the fire and Sam’s cheeks tingle as they thaw out but Dean remains stubbornly blue-lipped. Sam spies an old Coleman sleeping bag, olive-colored and faded, on one of the shelves and spreads it on the ground next to Dean. As he starts to remove Dean’s boots and peel off his wet clothes, Dean stirs.

“Get off me, you freak,” Dean mumbles, pushing back as Sam tries to untie the sodden flannel bandage around his chest. The scratches don’t look as deep as Sam originally thought, which is the first bit of good news. There’s an old first aid kit on the shelf where he found the sleeping bag. While the antibiotic gel is missing a cap and dried up, the gauze pads are clean and there’s a little pair of scissors to cut the roll of bandages. 

Dean struggles to sit up. “We gotta find Dad. He’s waiting for us.”

“Dad is two states away, Dean. Just shut up and help me, okay?” He tugs on Dean’s wet jacket sleeve before manhandling him to the other side and pulling the other sleeve off. The t-shirt is a total loss, the black cotton shredded in the front, so Sam cuts it up the back. 

“Hey, that’s my favorite Zeppelin shirt,” Dean says with less fight than before.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Sam says. “C’mon. Jeans and underwear too. Everything.” But Dean flops on his back and covers his eyes with his arm, his lips still tinged with blue.

“Too tired. Just let me sleep.”

“Nope. Can’t do that.” Sam reaches for the button of Dean’s jeans and starts to open them but Dean catches his wrist and they stare at each other before Sam shakes him off. “Fine, then you take them off.”

He watches as Dean struggles to pull the dark, wet denim down, exposing his soft belly and the trail of hair down his abdomen, before the jeans get stuck on his hips. A few grunts of frustration and Sam finally pushes Dean’s hands away and yanks the pants down inch by slow inch until they get past his knees and pull all the way off.

“See, much easier when I help,” he says. His gaze travels up Dean’s pale legs to where his black briefs sit high on his thighs and then up to his chest and the bloody scratches. “Let me put a real bandage on you.”

“Sleep now, bandage later,” Dean says. He climbs in the sleeping bag and Sam gives up. The wounds should be cleaned and dressed but the most important thing right now is getting Dean’s body temperature back to normal. The heat from the fire feels good but it’s melted the ice and snow on his own clothes, which drip on the floor. He strips, leaving another pile of soaked flannel and denim next to Dean’s by the fire. He hesitates as he looks back down at Dean, who is already snoring lightly. 

The best way to treat hypothermia is skin-to-skin contact. That’s what Dad said. At sixteen, Sam’s belly is full of bile for all the things John Winchester has or hasn’t said, but he knows that Dad’s right about this—somehow he has to get Dean’s body temperature back to normal.

“Scoot over, asshat, I’m coming in too,” he says.

Dean grunts as Sam slides his feet in and squeezes behind Dean in the sleeping bag. Despite the cramped space, they slot together perfectly. 

“Easier to do this when you were little,” Dean says. Despite the protest, he settles little spoon-style against Sam’s chest and pushes his ice-cold ass into Sam’s crotch. “Do you think Dad will be mad?” he mumbles.

“About what?” Sam winds his arms around Dean’s stomach, careful to stay clear of the scratches, rubbing his palms over any patch of cold skin he finds on his brother.

“He’s waiting at the diner,” Dean says. “Maybe he can order some pancakes for us. And sausage. Hmm, sausage.”

“He’s in Montana.” Sam lays his cheek flat against Dean’s chilly shoulder. “He’s not waiting for us.”

“That’s good. He hates waiting.”

Sam presses their bodies firmly together from shoulder to knee. His thighs cup up behind Dean’s and as the minutes pass, he can feel them both starting to thaw out. 

“Yeah, he does,” Sam finally answers.

It’s a tight fit. Sam wills himself to be still, to focus on his breathing. Under his fingertips, Dean’s icy skin is slowly warming where Sam is wrapped around him. He tries to concentrate on the sound of the old wood crackling in the stove and ignore the thought of how flat and smooth Dean’s stomach is or how the short hairs at the back of Dean’s neck tickle his nose. 

They shared a bed, not that long ago. When Sam had nightmares, he would distract himself by counting the freckles on Dean’s back like he was counting stars. His finger would draw the constellations between them. “Here’s Cassiopeia,” he would say, and Dean would squirm and fondly complain how it tickled but Sam would keep going, dragging his fingertip lightly, ending with Orion’s Belt on Dean’s left shoulder.

He kisses that line of three freckles now and an intense flare of gratitude burns hot and bright in his gut before it settles into a mean satisfaction. Dad’s not here. Sam’s the one who saved Dean; he’s the one who gets to take care of him.

He lays his cheek on Dean again and falls asleep to his brother’s soft breathing.

※ ※ ※

The fire is embers by the time Sam wakes up and somehow Dean has twisted around in the sleeping bag; his head is tucked under Sam’s chin and the space between them is a warm tangle of limbs. 

“When did you get so big,” Dean says. His voice is quiet but clear, the confusion of yesterday gone. Sam is relieved and disappointed as he waits for Dean to pull away. Instead, they stay nestled together. 

“How’re your scratches?” 

“Hurts but I’m okay.”

“Let me see.” Sam leans out and looks down. The wounds run in ragged, ugly tracks but they are scabbing up already, red but not infected. Sam runs a finger gently down one and then lets it trail down Dean’s stomach. 

Dean sucks in a breath. “Sam—“ 

He runs the finger back up over Dean’s chest to his shoulder and the freckles he slept on the night before. “Orion’s belt,” he murmurs.

Dean squirms at the touch but there’s nowhere to go inside the confines of the bag and Sam can feel Dean’s morning stiffness rubbing against his thigh, bumping his own cock between thin layers of cotton. He snakes his arm back down the narrow space between them, needing to touch it, but stops at Dean’s low groan.

“Sam—” Dean repeats once more with less force, licking his lips.

“Let me,” Sam says and closes his eyes. “Like we did in Kansas City. I helped you then.”

“I was cursed. That’s different.” His words are softly spoken into the hollow of Sam’s throat and now Sam is fully hard and drags his hips upward, moaning as his cock rubs against Dean’s.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.” He closes his eyes and pulls his hips slowly back as if he’s moving away but then grinds back up. “But you’re hurt.”

Dean’s hand comes up to grip the side of Sam’s throat and Sam flutters his eyes open. He expects to see anger but Dean’s gaze is bright with something that Sam hasn’t seen before, at least not directed at him.

“You’re different now,” is all Dean says back. Before he can say whatever else is on his mind, Sam surges forward, closing the gap between them to touch lips. What was frozen and blue yesterday is now pink and soft. He wants to lick into Dean’s mouth, getting at least one taste before his brother pushes him away. Instead, the grip on the back of his neck pulls him, fiercely smashing their mouths together.

Sam is so focused on Dean’s lips that he moans when Dean’s other hand drops down to squeeze his ass. The sleeping bag doesn’t allow much movement between them and Sam needs to move. He moans again, more urgently this time, as Dean shifts to unzip the bag to their waists. The skin on his naked back pebbles up as the colder air hits it before Dean shifts Sam underneath him.

He clenches his eyes shut and waits for Dean to break the kiss, to end the moment. Because it has to end. There’s no curse or sickness to give Sam a reason to be wrapped around his brother like this. Now, there’s only the need to satisfy his own desire to be close to Dean and to touch every inch of his brother.

When Dean does pull back from the kiss, he strokes his thumb along Sam’s jawline slow and patient until Sam opens his eyes. This close up, Dean’s eyes are even greener than yesterday and Sam loses himself in the mixed colors of his iris before he notices Dean’s smile.

“You’re not pissed?” Sam says.

“Tell me what you need,” Dean says. 

Sam takes Dean’s face between his hands and smiles at how warm Dean’s cheeks are.

“You. Alive. Just the two of us.” He pulls Dean roughly down into another kiss. He takes Dean’s smile against his lips as permission to take a taste finally. When they break apart, Dean’s face is flushed pink. “Just let me,” Sam says. 

Sam humps Dean, the slow delicious drag of their cocks together, trapped between their bodies, and smiles as Dean closes his eyes and arches his back. “Fuck, fuck,” Dean says softly as Sam moves his hand down into the warmth of the sleeping bag to cup Dean’s balls through his shorts, causing another louder groan.

They are miles from anyone, alone for once, no thin motel walls or the rumble of the car in motion, just the quiet of the cabin and the woods. He pushes his underwear below his cock and does the same to Dean. There’s enough pre-come at the tip that Sam can smear it on the palm of his hand before wrapping his fingers around both shafts. They’re pushed together so tightly that he can’t see the two side-by-side, but he has the memory of Kansas City burned into his mind, how Dean is longer than Sam and how his cock curves to the right. He feels the soft skin under his palm and watches the flutter of Dean’s eyelashes as he strokes the two of them together. After a few pumps of his fist, Dean stops the profanity and begins to make these short breathy noises that catch at the back of his throat and Sam feels a burst in his chest of pride and desire. 

He wants to hear every noise that Dean makes, but he doesn’t have that kind of patience. The base of his spine tingles and his thigh muscles stiffen as his orgasm builds and he starts stroking the two cocks faster. Dean’s grip on his neck tightens and he presses his forehead into Sam’s and chants his name over and over until he jerks a final time and comes over Sam’s hand and cock. Two more strokes and Sam follows behind with a cry.

Sam is still floating in that warm after-space when Dean unzips the sleeping bag and throws it open and pulls himself out in the cool air. The skin on Sam’s arms pebbles up in goosebumps as he watches Dean strip off his shorts, his back turned towards Sam. Just like Kansas City.

“They must have some towels here,” Dean says, rummaging through the cabinets, digging out a package of wet wipes. 

Sam pulls the sleeping bag back over and covers himself up. He closes his eyes, trying to chase that moment of quiet satisfaction but it’s gone. Dean pokes at him. 

“Come on. Get up. We gotta get going.” 

※ ※ ※

Sam has barely finished wrapping the bandage around the gauze on Dean’s chest before Dean stands up and moves over to their clothes, sorting through the piles to find his jeans.

“Dad will know,” Dean says as he pulls the jeans up over his hips and Sam does the same. The fire last night dried out their socks so it’s not miserable to put them on again. “We need to be careful.”

“I don’t care if Dad knows. This is between you and me.”

Dean makes an irritated noise as he shakes out the sleeping bag. “You better care.”

Sam steps in to grab the other end of it and they fold it in half before Dean starts rolling it up on his end. He still doesn’t look at Sam as he does it; he hasn’t looked at him since they got up. Any euphoria Sam felt this morning is replaced by the same resignation he’s carried on his shoulders since he was nine and found out about hunting.

He got his wish and in the end, nothing was going to change. It was bullshit.

“Where is Dad going to meet us?” he says, his voice reed-high and pissy. Even though he’s old enough to hunt and save Dean’s life, Dad and Dean hadn’t shared any details about their post-hunt plans with him again.

“Bobby’s,” Dean says as he hands off the bag to Sam and turns around to poke at the stove, making sure the embers are dead. “We can get there tonight if we haul ass.”

“Sure,” Sam says, swallowing down the anger, trying to sound less like a teenager and more like the man Dean wants him to be. “That’s good. Bobby’s holding some stuff for me.”

That gets Dean’s attention and he meets Sam’s eyes. “What stuff?”

“School stuff,” Sam says. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

Dean pauses and adjusts the weapons bag further up his shoulder. He opens the door to a blinding white landscape and the snow is already melting in the bright sun. Sam emerges from the cabin behind him and shields his eyes with his hand. The snow which had almost defeated them yesterday now lies in a pristine crust over the ground and in the tree branches. It’s a pretty picture, and Sam wonders what it would be like to live in this kind of isolation, far from other people and his Dad. Part of him wants to retreat while another part wants to head to California, go to school, become part of a world bigger than monsters and motel rooms. Dean won’t agree to either of those so Sam focuses on the one thing he knows for sure—that the Impala is waiting for them at the trailhead and his place is sitting next to Dean in the passenger seat.

“You coming?” Dean asks as he steps off into the snow, leaving perfectly-formed footprints for Sam to follow.

“Yeah,” he says. “Right behind you.”


End file.
